The Game Upon A Midnight Clear
by Wordwielder
Summary: My entry for Hades' December Challenge this year!
1. Animals

**1\. From Book girl fan: Write them all as the animal of your choice.**

"Starting the Challenge off with a bang this year, aren't we?" Holmes said with the air of a long-suffering patient. "Animals, of all things."

"Well, you're obvious," Wordwielder said dismissively, swiveling to face Watson.

"Obvious?" Holmes said, sounding a little hurt.

"Oh, and you too," she said to Watson, who smiled uncertainly. "I've got you. But Mycroft..." she turned to where he sat nibbling at a lemon tart anxiously. "I think...yes. I think. Mrs. Hudson...Lestrade...Gregson, I think, for company...Wiggins and the boys...anyone else?"

"Erm, no," Watson said timidly. "I think that's sufficient..."

"Alrighty, then," Wordwielder said, rubbing her hands together gleefully. "Well, Holmes, you're an otter, of course, and Watson you're a hedgehog. Shh!" she said, stopping them as they started to argue. "Mycroft, I've decided you're going to be a fat Persian cat who sleeps all day." Mycroft merely shrugged. "Scotland Yard will be various kind of terrier dogs. Wiggins and the boys will be mice. Mrs. Hudson was tricky, but I think she's a bunny."

"A bunny?" Mrs Hudson stopped pouring tea. "Do you mean to say we'll all just _become_ -"

"There it is," Wordwielder said as they all started to shrink and grow fur. The air filled with chaotic squeaks and hisses.

"I don't think it's permanent," she said apologetically.

 **Well, that was silly and fun. I'm excited for this year's challenge! I'll probably get behind quite soon (finals, ugh), but still, yay!**


	2. Shipping

**From I'm Nova: Watson ships Holmes with female clients.**

"I'm ever so grateful you'll take me on," Emma Bloom said earnestly, clasping Holmes' hands. I wondered how he could be so cold as to not even blush at the touch of such a comely woman. She wore a becoming violet dress and simple bonnet; she had made no secret of her relative poverty, but she still managed to appear smart. A blonde curl was slipping out of its place. I urged Holmes to push it back in my head, but of course he did no such thing. Never was there a man blinder to romantic opportunity.

"Of course," Holmes said briskly, standing up. "I believe your coat is downstairs, miss. Perhaps Watson will escort you down? I have a thought to pursue."

"Of course," I said, offering my arm. Did the lady perhaps look a bit crestfallen?

"Is he...always...so-?" she asked, her voice anxious. I laughed. "I'm afraid so, miss. Don't fear- it's nothing against you."

When I returned upstairs after bidding the young lady adieu and assuring her that her prospects would be considerably better in a day or so, Holmes was deep in an old map of the city, his nose nearly touching the map. I banged my bottle of whiskey on the sideboard, and he blinked at me.

"Yes?"

"If you had half a heart, you'd have your pick of sweethearts," I told him.

"Oh for heaven's sake," Holmes sighed. "Are you at it again?"

"It?"

"Matchmaking."

I shrugged. "Would you like a drink?"

"Not just now. My dear Watson, just because _you_ found a charming wife on a case doesn't guarantee the same fate for me." He bent back over the map, and I gave up my efforts for the moment.

 ***sheepish shrug* I am very behind. My birthday weekend and then finals happened. I'm on it now, though!**


	3. Holly and Ivy

**From Riandra: Holly and Ivy**

 **I'm getting serious deja vu for this prompt, but I don't _think_ I've ever done it before? So here goes?**

Holmes and I had just wrapped a case successfully, but night had fallen and it was too late to make arrangements to return to London tonight. Rather than let us return to the village inn, the Burl family insisted we stay and celebrate with them. The celebratory dinner quickly grew into something of a village-wide party.

"They weren't exaggerating about the importance of finding the livestock for the village, were they?" I muttered to Holmes after yet another farmer with wine-ruddy cheeks came over to shake our hands.

Holmes was about to answer me when there were tugs on my trouser leg, and we both looked down. There were two small girls, about as high as my thigh, with fiery red hair and freckled cheeks, looking up at me. They were dressed in pretty green silk dresses, and each had a holly pendant pinned to their collars.

"Thank you for finding our horse," said one.

"Her name is Petals," said the other.

"Mother said to tell you we were very grateful," said the first.

"You're welcome," Holmes said. He looked mildly overwhelmed at the little bodies crowding his legs, as though one might decide to latch on to him.

"What are your names, children?" I asked.

"I'm Holly," said the first. "I'm Ivy," said the second. "We're twins," they said together.

"Today's our birthday!" said Holly.

Holmes smiled. "Well, happy birthday."

"We need to get some cake," Ivy said urgently to Holly.

"They'll eat it all," Holly explained.

"By all means," I laughed, and they tore off. Their skirts floated after them, and their giggles trailed back to me. I thought of the gender-neutral white nightgowns Mary had been knitting. I had hope for a son, but perhaps, a little girl would be even sweeter. Maybe even multiples.


	4. Sleeping in Church

**From Riandra: Falling asleep in church**

Charlotte Watson put her head in hands and moaned. " _What_ will the reverend say when I drop off his Christmas cookies?"

"Come now, dear, they're not the first boys to misbehave in church," her husband James said as he slipped on his dressing gown.

"I know," she sighed. "I just feel like I'm alway having to apologize for them. Remember when Hamish tripped John going to the pew last summer?"

"Ah, yes," James said, carefully looking away from his wife so she wouldn't see him fighting a smile. He had thought it was a little funny, but she had been mortified.

"And when they tried to sneak a bull pup each into bible study under their coats?" James bit his lip; keeping from laughing was getting more difficult.

"Or when they switched their suits so they looked like ragamuffins? Hamish looked like he'd shrunk and John looked like a scarecrow!"

James finally couldn't hold it in. He started laughing. She looked at him reproachfully, but he couldn't stop. Finally, she chuckled a little.

"Love, at least this time they just fell asleep," James said, putting an arm around her.

"I guess it's better than trying to drink the communal wine," she said.

James furrowed his brow.

"They have't done that," she said. "Yet."


	5. Modern

**Book girl fan: Modern day adventure.**

"Sherlock, be careful. If you tackle the wrong guy, you're getting arrested."

"Getting arrested might be entertaining."

"Why, because it'd piss Mycroft off?"

"Exactly, John. I live to infuriate Mycroft."

"So it's not just me."

"No, you share the honor." Sherlock peered around the shrubbery that was concealing both him and John in a very small corner. It was a bit difficult to breathe. "Besides, I'm certain it's Dougherty. Remember, his-"

"Jeans," John finished. "Yeah, I know. Just be careful, mate. If you tackle the wrong guy, he punches you, I come to your defense, I have a black eye for prom photos and a mark on my record."

"Your loyalty touches me."

"I said I'd come to your defense!"

"Shh. There he is. They'll be reporting another sneaker theft any moment. Ready, John?"

"Ready."


	6. Blizzard

**From Sparky Dorian: A blizzard takes London by surprise.**

"So do ye have anything to kip on?" Wiggins asked hopefully. Five pairs of eyes swiveled to Holmes at the question. He turned to Mrs. Hudson.

"I have some roast, I think there's enough to accommodate our...extra...visitors," she said.

Toby yipped from where at least three people were petting him, making his presence known.

"I think I've got some scraps for him," Holmes said hastily. Mrs. Hudson was less than pleased at the presence of a dog in her parlor. Tabby wasn't pleased either, but he made his disdain known by sleeping in the middle of Holmes' pile of papers on his work table.

"We're really very sorry to be a bother," one of the carolers smushed on the couch said timidly. "If we weren't so fair from home, we wouldn't have come up."

"No trouble," Watson said before Holmes could say anything rude. He was very displeased to have gathered his Irregulars and his favorite hound to only have the weather delay the impending chase. "I daresay the blizzard took us all by surprise. Mrs. Hudson, let me help you make some more cocoa."


	7. Abroad

**7\. I'm Nova: A case brings Sherlock and Watson outside the UK.**

"Well, my dear Watson," Holmes said, shielding his eyes from the punishing sun, "In this, you shall be more than my right-hand man; you shall have to be an extension of myself. Regretfully, in my studies, I have focused more on European languages than Asiatic ones...should our man have chosen to hide in Bavaria or Nice, I should be more comfortable. I am correct in assuming you speak enough of the language to get us by?"

"I think so," I answered. "It has been some years since I was in India, but I think I recall well enough. I spoke fair enough Hindi by the time I left service, and I know a passable amount of Tamil and Urdu. Of course, don't over-flatter me, Holmes; many of the natives we will encounter speak excellent English."

"Don't undervalue the power of knowing language," Holmes said. "Now, our first step is to find a hostel for us to lay down our bags. Then the game is afoot."


	8. Mincemeat Pies

**8\. From Winter Winks 221: mince pies.**

"Missus Hudson?" Alfie piped up from the door. Mrs Hudson looked up from where she was elbow deep in flour and said, "Yes? Do you need something, dear?"

"The boys is upstairs with Mister Holmes workin' out a schedule for tailing a suspect," Alfie said. "But I've been a bit off-color, like, and the Doctor said I shouldn't be out in the cold."

"I'm sure he's right," Mrs Hudson said.

"But anyways, anything I can help you with?" Alfie asked. "I'm bored. I can clean," he offered.

"Ah, I suppose you could sweep the kitchen up," Mrs. Hudson said. "The broom is in that closet."

Alfie grabbed the broom and awkwardly figured how to maneuver it. It was a bit taller than he was.

"Wot you makin'?" he asked.

"Mincemeat pies."

"What 'xactly is in that?"

"Well, there's ground beef...that's the meat part. Then there's figs, apple, pecans, lemon zest, brown sugar and just a little brandy."

Alfie carefully propped up the broom. "Can I help? You're makin' the crust, right? I'll wash up good."

"Why, bless you," Mrs. Hudson said. "I don't think I've had anyone help me cook in...wash thoroughly, dear."

"Me mam likes to cook," Alfie said. "Can I mix?"

She handed him the bowl.

"Do you help her often?"

"Yeah," he answered, stirring a particularly stubborn clump of flour in with the butter mixture. "Sometimes I make dinner for me and my sister, when Ma's tired and Pa's not back from work."

"That's very kind of you," Mrs. Hudson said.

Alfie shrugged. "I'm done with this bowl," he said.

Mrs. Hudson was surprised at how having another set of hands eased the work. She scarcely had time to voice her need for an ingredient before the boy was holding it up to her.

"When do we get to taste it?" Alfie asked as she finished making the filling.

"Oh, not until tomorrow, dear. It's got a while to sit before I cook it."

"Oh," he said glumly.

"Come on by about four tomorrow," Mrs. Hudson said. "You can help me finish it up for supper."

Alfie beamed and hugged her round her legs. "I've got to get home," he said. "Thanks, Missus Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson waved after him. Those boys were always surprising her.


	9. Mistake

**From Spockologist: Mrs. Hudson makes a terrible mistake.**

"I don't know what on earth I was thinking," Mrs. Hudson said as Dr. Watson dabbed her forehead.

"Now, now," Watson soothed, "you mustn't blame yourself."

"I was distracted about Christmas," she continued. "I wasn't thinking clearly."

"It's happened to us all."

"When I said, 'help yourself to anything in the kitchen,' I did only mean the food. For luncheon."

"I know. He knew, too. You know how Holmes is."

"And to come back to every spoon we had ruined...all because he needed conductors...what on earth will we eat soup with, Doctor?" she said, her voice rising hysterically.

"Perhaps no soup for a week or so," Watson said. "He'll replace every spoon he ruined, madam. His means aren't as modest as he might pretend."

"I really am so sorry," she continued.

"Don't be. Why don't you take a rest, there you are...don't worry about the silverware." She sighed and reclined back, and Watson wondered as he took his leave how on earth they were going to hide the scorch marks on the wall.


	10. Pudding

**From Book girl fan: Does anyone, ever, actually like Christmas pudding? Holmes and Watson plot creative ways to dispose of it.**

"I maintain we could just dump it on Lestrade."

"Holmes, that's unspeakably rude," Watson scolded. "Plus, his wife would kill us."

"Fair. What if we just let Mycroft eat it all?"  
"Would he?"

"It's Mycroft, Watson."

"There's always giving it to the Irregulars."

"They already got a tin."

"Damn. Would the birds eat it?"

"I'm telling you, the consistency would make it a perfect snowball to hurl at Lestrade. He'd never suspect it."

Watson considered.

"What if we gave it to Gregson," he said slowly. "And had _him_ throw it at Lestrade?"

"In the interest of fairness, I think we ought give some to Lestrade to defend himself," Holmes grinned.


	11. Amnesia

**11\. From Aleine Skyfire: One of the characters suffers amnesia. How is this going to go down?**

"Dr. Watson," one of my associates scuttled up to me nervously. I hoped that he wasn't about to tell me one of my patients had passed.

"It's your wife, sir," he said, and my stomach clenched up.

"Mary? What is it?"

"She's fallen and hit her head. She seems quite fine, just disoriented, but we thought you should see her." There was a hesitation in his words that worried me, but I grabbed my coat and nodded. "Take me to her."

Mary had slipped on our icy front steps and been carried inside by some well-meaning passerby. She sat up, blinking slowly, against the pillows. With her hair fallen from its usual chignon and her eyes so wide, she looked like a porcelain doll in a display case rather than the mistress of the house in her own bed.

"Oh, Mary, darling," I said, sitting by her side, "You've given me a fright."

"I'm sorry," she said slowly.

"Don't apologize," I said, reaching for her hand, but she slid it out of my reach. "I don't mean to be rude, but who are you?" she asked, her voice genuinely distressed.

"Do you know who you are?" I said, once I had regained my power of speech.

"Mary Morstan," she said promptly.

"Morstan is your maiden name," I said. "Your name is Mary Watson now."

"Oh," she said. "Then you are my husband?"

"Yes."

"Have we been married long?"

"About a year."

"Ah." She frowned. "I should remember you. I don't know why my head is so fuzzy."

"You had a fall. Tell me, what is the last thing you remember?"

"I...I was taking Timmy to the park, so I could think. I had received a letter..."

"That was just before we met," I said gently. "I think you should sleep. If I'm right, your memory will return in bits, in time. I shouldn't think a small fall will disrupt your life for long." I smiled as reassuringly as I could, trying to disassociate myself to a doctor, not a husband.

She smiled, a frail smile, but a smile. "You seem like a capable doctor. Are you also a capable husband?"

I laughed, mostly out of surprise. "I like to think so."

She nodded. "Then I trust I can rest, and it'll come in time. Would you perhaps bring me some tea?"

"For you, anything," I said.

I woke up the next morning to Mary admiring the quilt. "I made this for our house," she said.

She was back to herself in just a few days, Thank God. I was not quite sure I was up to the miracle of earning her love twice.


	12. A Night In

**12\. From Book girl fan: A quiet night in for the Watsons.**

Watson had solemnly promised his wife a night of his full attention. Holmes had been warned away (unless he truly, truly needed help only Watson could provide), and Watson had set another doctor on his patients. He thought it unlikely anyone else would trouble for his company, but if someone showed up, he had another engagement.

They had a pleasant dinner, the fire crackling and warming the room. Then they retired to the living room, where Mary lay her head on his lap and opened her latest novel, another mystery story. She had a taste for them, particularly after starring in one of her own. He opened his own book. Occasionally they spoke, and they kept their wine glasses close to sip at. Watson stroked Mary's hair, and she curled closer, smiling. He read his own novel, and looked down a while later to find his wife fast asleep, her face content. He gently pried her novel from her hand and laid it next to his, carefully shifting so he could pick her up. She was still so small, almost childlike. Not fragile, but delicate, perhaps. And very beautiful, it couldn't be denied.

She stirred as he put her into bed and started trying to unlace her dress.

"Why, John," she teased. "Are you wanting something?"

He blushed; she grinned and said, "Come to bed, my love."


	13. Trains

**13\. From mrspencil: a train journey.**

Holmes looked out of the windows, so pensively I had to ask what was on his mind.

He smiled wryly. "Oh, just hoping our train doesn't disappear into thin air."

"You are referring to the Lost Special?"

"I admit I have been turning the problem over in my mind. You know me well, old friend."

A privately hired train, bound for London from Liverpool, had recently vanished without a trace. It had been spotted passing Kenyon junction, but had never reached Barton Moss. The Engineer's body had been found, and a letter had emerged from the United States claiming to be written by a crewman, but the train had simply vanished, along with the crew and two passengers. Authorities were baffled.

"I have been thinking," Holmes said. "The train must have been destroyed, somehow. Trains don't just disappear."

"But why?"

"Organized crime is my best guess. I suspect the train was redirected onto a mine path, where they lay in wait..." he trailed off, and I shivered.

"Of course, I have not been contacted on the matter, and I have other cases to busy me," he said. "Perhaps I will simply write a letter of advice. Come now, Watson, let us speak of lighter matters."

I smiled as best as I could. "A game of poker, perhaps?"

Holmes rolled up his sleeves.

T **he vanishing train is a reference to another ACD story, "The Lost Special," which has a veiled reference to Holmes.**


	14. Brothers

**From Winter Winks 221: Fraternal love.**

There was something of a distance between my brother and I even as children. He was seven years my senior, and was already spending school terms away when I was born. Naturally, our interests didn't overlap much in my early years. Over the years I caught up, so to speak, but Mycroft wasn't so fair from university and independence. We were always competitive, and sometimes our poor mother must've thought we only lived to torment each other.

Certainly we did torment each other. Mycroft delighted in correcting me, and I delighted in undermining him. When we interacted, it was never malevolent, but it wasn't always what one might term brotherly. We tricked and pranked each other as much as we could manage under our parents' noses. One, for nearly a month, I hid half of Mycroft's socks so he never had a matching pair, which drove him mad.

Still, Mycroft understood me in a way no one else could. We were not quite like others, we knew. And they knew it, too.

When I was about ten, Mycroft was dispatched to make the journey to my school and take me home for the holidays. He happened to jaunt (as much as Mycroft could jaunt) around the corner to find one of my asinine classmates mocking me, and while I was unbothered, Mycroft picked the boy up by his collar and threatened, "If you don't want to apologize to my brother directly, I'll be carrying you back to be disciplined by the headmaster now." For the first time, I saw my brother as physically imposing and almost intimidating in his growth into manhood. The boy blanched, mumbled a "sorry," and Mycroft dropped him into the dust. "Come along, Sherlock," he said.

Mycroft and I have never bothered with the trifling matter of expressing fraternal love. Some things don't require wording.


	15. Space

**15\. From Book girl fan: Adventures...in SPACE!**

 _"Ow!"_

"Sorry, old boy. Didn't mean to kick you like that. It's just this suit is- difficult- to maneuver."

"You're not wrong," Holmes sighed. "I feel a bit out of my depth."

"But aren't the stars marvelous?"

"Ah, but remember, I don't know the solar system," Holmes joked.

"And I told you it would be useful to you," Watson retorted.

"And how was I to know they'd want to write us in space, Watson?"

"I've told you to put nothing past the fandom," Watson said. "I'm sure they'll get us back soon enough. In the meantime, should we start by exploring the moon?"


	16. Pets

**16\. From Aleine Skyfire: Holmes brings home an unusual pet.**

"What in God's name!"

Holmes was unusually cheery. A grin stretched across his features. "Hullo, Watson," he greeted, setting down the wire cage on his arm and hanging up his coat.

"Holmes," I choked out. "Isn't that your murder weapon?"

"So it is," he said, putting the cage on his worktable. The scorpion inside scurried about. "The Arizona Bark Scorpion, or _Centruroides sculpturatus._ Worry not, Watson. The only reason Othello here killed Mr. Frust was that he was still recovering from his attack of pneumonia. Had his immune system been at its peak, he would have merely-"

"-had extreme pain, possibly seizures, vomiting, and numbness around the bite," I finished.

"Exactly. Nothing permanent," Holmes said. "I thought we could shelter this fellow for a while. It's not his fault he was scooped from the desert and shipped here. The climate's all wrong for him. He needs warmth and some bark to climb."

"Wait, Othello?" I said in disbelief.

Holmes shrugged. "I thought it suited him."


	17. Toby

**17\. From I'm Nova: From Toby's point of view.**

"Toby, boy, eh. Come out."

Sherman. No food. Hm. Not worth moving from the warm nap spot.

"Hello, Toby."

Tall Detective. Tail wagging. Hello. Worth moving. Sniff- short doctor with treats in his pocket. Worth moving. Up.

"Hello, Toby." Nice ear-scratch. Ahhhh.

"We've got a job for you," Tall Detective says. Chase. Tail wagging.

"Smell this, boy."

Sniff- old paper, leather, fear. Target.

Howl. Run. RunRunRun toward Target smell. Tall Detective and Short Doctor close. Target- there. Bite leg, grab on, there, there.

"Good boy, Toby. Here's a treat. Good boy."

Tail thump.

 **AHHHH I loved this prompt, thank you Nova!**


	18. Opening

**From Book girl fan: A celebratory opening**

"Here it is," Watson said, making a grand gesture with his arm over his practice's door. "Officially open."

Stanford smiled. "Good of you to start practicing civil medicine once more!" he said. "One might've thought Afghanistan and your lodging with Sherlock Holmes had driven the desire out of you entirely."

"Oh no," Watson chuckled. "I am a married man, and responsibility favors the husband more than the bachelor."

"I'm not sure you ever lose the doctor, anyway," Stanford said. "Do you think you'll be satisfied with a quiet practice, rather than bullet wounds?"

"I'm certain I'll enjoy tending my patients," Watson said. "Besides, I'm sure adventure will find me, one way or another. It seems I am not cut out for a quiet life."


	19. Mantle

**From Riandra: What does Moriarty have on his mantelpiece?**

Professor James Moriarty felt no great animosity towards the holiday season. Indeed, the merriment in the air sometimes proved useful in his work. Of course, a murder would excite much horror around Christmas, but smaller, pettier crimes were rarely noticed this time of year with mistletoe scrambling the brains of the police and the common folk both. Still, he did not consider himself a godly man, nor a frivolous one, so he had no personal connection to the season either, and only partook in what festivities he must.

Moran sent him a Christmas card, to his surprise. He had received others, from university colleagues and the occasional student, over the years, but he never kept them. He was not a sentimental man. Moran had written, underneath the card's well-wishes, "Many thanks. Your servant, SM." It rang of devotion. Moriarty moved to put the card in his desk, but hesitated. He propped it up on the mantle against his old treatise, the one that had bought him his small, reputable fame. The bright card stock seemed a bit out of place with his books, globe, and his antique pistol displayed on the mantle, but it was cheery, none the less.

After all, Moriarty had nothing against Christmas cheer.


	20. Weather

**From I'm Nova: Unusual weather.**

"It just doesn't feel like Christmas," Mrs Hudson said, almost petulantly. It had been raining for days, but it was indecently warm; the pipes gurgled with running water and the streets collected puddles, but not a flake of snow had fallen.

"It feels like March out there," Dr. Watson agreed. "Truth be told, I'm worried about Holmes, Mrs. Hudson. He's getting into one of his moods, being cooped up inside with no cases to ruminate on."

"As long as he doesn't shoot one of my walls again," Mrs. Hudson said darkly.

"I'll try to keep him busy," Watson promised.

Holmes was sprawled on the couch, his feet slipping toward the floor. He was staring blankly at the ceiling, and Watson hoped vehemently that he hadn't dosed himself. He had promised to be more sparing.

"I'm quite here, Watson," Holmes said, following his thoughts as always.

"A game of chess, Holmes?"

"You know I'll win."

"I don't know. I've been studying up. Come on, then."

Holmes sat up and rolled up his sleeves, smiling slightly.

Watson took white. He preferred white. Hamish had taught him to play chess, one of their winter breaks when they were children. He trounced his little brother mercilessly every time to begin with, but John had gotten better over the years. By the time Hamish finished school, they were evenly matched. He could remember sitting in the library, studying the board that had been passed down the Watson line, looking for a trick to play as the snow fell.

"Your turn, my good Watson."

It felt a bit more like Christmas.


	21. Popcorn

**From Riandra: Popcorn**

"Ouch," Watson hissed.

Mary giggled. "Careful, dear. That mean old needle just wants to stick you." She was slipping popcorn on her thread easily and gracefully. Her husband looked enviously at her nearly completed string, then down at where he had stabbed himself with the needle.

Wounded or not, John Watson was enjoying himself. The fire was spreading warmth over the room; Mary had cocoa and cookies out for them to nibble on; the tree looked resplendent, waiting only for the popcorn strings to be finished and hung up.

"I haven't made one of these since I was a child," he said. "We hung them on our tree as well."

"I remember making them with Papa when I was quite young, but we didn't do such things at school. Mrs. Forrester's children and I made them last Christmas," Mary said. She tied up the end of her rope and stood to drape it over the tree. She adjusted the string here and there and then smiled. "Lovely. We should have enough popcorn to finish your string and maybe make another...that is," she swatted his hand, about to drop a piece of popcorn in his mouth, "if you don't eat them all!"

Watson grinned guiltily. "But think, dear. I'm sure the Irregulars will snipe pieces off the tree directly when they come by."

"They won't like if I catch them," Mary threatened, and Watson laughed as he picked back up his string.


	22. Lost

From Riandra: Lost in the snow

"It's almost over our heads, Basil," Dawson said urgently. "Shouldn't we stop?"

"I think stopping would mean our demise, my good Dawson," Basil said grimly. "I think we're better to try and get closer to Baker Street. The more the snow piles, the less familiar these streets seem." He pushed at the snow, determined, and Dawson, shaking his head, followed suit. It _was_ difficult to place where they were, the more the snow piled on. Dawson was thinking more and more they ought to risk slipping into someone else's home other than their own, despite the dangers of humans and cats and dogs and rats, rather than freeze. He was ready to say as much to Basil when he run right into the mouse's back. He had stopped entirely. Snow was accumulating on his cloak.

"What is it?"

"I've lost my bearings," Basil admitted hopelessly. Dawson closed his eyes to pray and shivered.

"Hullo, is that Basil and Dawson?" a large voice called. Dawson opened his eyes and nodded to the sky gratefully. None other than one of the few fine humans the duo knew, Doctor Watson, was hurrying up the street.

"It is!" Dawson called as loudly as he could.

Watson crouched down. His nose was very pink. "I almost trod on you. Caught out in unpleasant weather as well?"

"Poor night to mail a letter," Basil said pointedly. Watson shrugged. "It was an important letter. May I give you a lift home, gentlemice?"

"Yes," Dawson said before Basil could refuse out of pride. Watson held out his hand, and they both climbed on. He slipped them into his coat pocket, which was so cozy and warm Dawson sighed involuntarily. The walk home, which had seemed mountainous before, was over in a flash. Watson set them gently down outside of their door hole, underneath the doctor's own abode, and Basil said almost politely, "Thank you for the assistance."

"We're in your debt," Dawson added.

Watson smiled. "Enjoy your night. Perhaps some violin to accompany the storm winds?" He nodded towards the window, where Sherlock Holmes' silhouette waited. "I must return to Holmes. Merry Christmas to you both."

"Merry Christmas!" They called back, and wasted no time in scampering to their warm home.

 **I've never written about Basil and Dawson, but I decided the time was nigh. I do hope you're all familiar with the Great Mouse Detective.**


	23. Calculations

**From cjnwriter: If my calculations are correct...**

"How many children does Santa hafta visit tonight?" Alfie asked innocently of Holmes. Watson sent his friend a pleading look over the boy. _It_ _'s math,_ he begged silently. _Just do the math and say no more!_

Holmes seemed to receive the message. "Let me get a scrap of parchment to work the figures, Alfie. I shall need to estimate the world population and how many of them are children." He busily worked at the figures for a moment. "I see. If my calculations are correct, it should be about 500 million children."

Alfie's jaw dropped. "How's 'e gonna get to 'em all?"

Holmes raised his eyebrows at Watson as if to suggest he'd already done his part, and Watson ought to chip in.

"See, Alfie," Watson began. "Santa Clause has a special magic. Time isn't the same for him as it is for you and me..."

 **(Couldn't find how many children really existed in this time, this is made up math, alas).**


	24. Worsted

**From Riandra: Worsted**

"Of all investigations to come to a close on Christmas Eve," Watson said, shaking his head. "A smuggling ring using wool..."

"You must admit, using the worsted wool to hide the smugglers' treasures was clever," Holmes said. "One might've only thought the sisters were transporting their wool to knit suits. They paid every shipping fee, followed every regulation...but for the unusual weights, I might'v never been able to prove their crime."

"Do you think we'll get any new suits out of the affair?" Watson joked.

"I would be happy with convictions, myself," Holmes replied. "To solve a deceptively simple mystery and find such intrigue is the best yuletide gift I could've asked for."


	25. Presents

**From cjnwriter: The Christmas present he/she didn't ask for.**

It had been a long day, though it had been so merry John Watson was quite grateful for his exhaustion. The Christmas before had been more somber than he cared to remember; this one had nearly vanquished the memory. Holmes had let him throw a party. The Irregulars ran about as the inspectors shared stories about their time on the force, and of course, that young upstart Sherlock Holmes and how he had infuriated them. Mrs. Hudson had prepared such a glorious repast that everyone ate more than was advisable. Holmes had produced a leather journal as a gift, "in hopes there were will be many adventures to fill its pages," he said, and the inspectors had given Watson a bottle of fine Scottish whiskey, which he had promptly dished out. Holmes had not only allowed Watson to decorate 221B to his heart's content, but had even helped put up the tree this year.

The party broke up quite late, after several Irregulars were found asleep in a pile on the floor, clutching the stockings filled with their Christmas sweets. Watson was warm, pleasantly tipsy, and so happy he wasn't quite sure what to do with the feeling.

Holmes was looking out the window. He caught Watson's eyes and smiled gently. Without another word, he retrieved his violin and started to play. The rich notes of "O Holy Night," spread through the air, and Watson closed his eyes, drinking in the sound. He fell asleep in his chair by the fire, Holmes still playing, thoroughly convinced of peace on earth and goodwill toward men.

 **Merry belated Christmas, all!**


	26. Ice Skating

**From cjnwriter: Ice skating for the first time**

"I can't believe you've never been!" Watson said as Mrs. Hudson leaned over to tie her skates. She reminded him of a bird with their feathers fluffed in her thick woolen skirt and coat.

"There was never a suitable pond near my childhood home," she answered. "My mother was a worrier." She tried to stand, but wobbled; Watson seized her hand. "Alright, it's simple enough. Let's start by just walking. Lean on me."

Mrs. Hudson did indeed lean heavily on the doctor, clinging on with a vice-like slip when her feet slid underneath her. "Ah, ah, there you go. There. Keep your eyes up, madam, it'll help."

Finally, she said in a determined voice, "I think I can do it myself, now, Doctor." She unwrapped her fingers from around his arms and tentatively stepped forward, perhaps a bit wobbly but still-standing. She grinned at Watson, and he thought that she looked far younger than he had ever seen her; fleetingly, he wondered how old she might be. Smart enough to not ask, he smiled. "Now, lean forward just a bit. Jut your knees, yes, perfect." She stumbled, but caught herself.

"Alright, madam," Watson said, "we're going to skate proper. Slow, for now. Don't worry if you fall."

He exaggerated his movements, leaning forward and starting off slowly. Mrs. Hudson imitated him. She did quite well, really; when she fell, she didn't even cry out. "Act, my hip will feel that later," she sighed. "Do help me up, Doctor."

He extended his hand; with a glint of mischief in her eye, she pulled him down right along with her. Watson considered being offended, but couldn't stop laughing long enough to seriously entertain the notion.

"Shall we go again?" Mrs. Hudson said.

"Certainly."


	27. Irene

**From Aleine Skyfire: Snippet about any one of the canon women, before, during, or after the story they're in.**

"Irene," her mother said. She had been standing at the window, her back to Irene, for nearly ten minutes, and her posture radiated fury. He back was ramrod straight, and her fists were clenched. Irene sat up immediately. "Mother?"

"I want to tell you something very important," her mother said. "In this world, men will tell you that they are better than you. They will say that what is in-between their legs equates their superiority over you as if this is nothing but objective fact. No matter what you do, they will criticize you. If you were to cure every illness in the world, they would say you are overambitious and foolish for attempting such a thing. Even if you are nothing but bright, pleasant, and witty all your days, they will say you are remarkable _for a woman-_ not a remarkable person. I am sorry to say, my dear girl, that the world will always see you as prospective mother and wife and little else. You will be judged on not your own merit, but that of your husband- whether you find one who doesn't drink and who has land."

She turned to Irene, her face impassioned as Irene had never seen. "I want to tell you, my child, that every man who treats you as if you are less, even non-maliciously, is _wrong._ You are more than a domestic breeder. You are your own person, and I want you to fight every day to be a remarkable one, no matter what anyone says. Never stoop to listen to the fools who tell you to stay in your place. You make your own place in the world. If it makes you happy to be married, by God, do it; but never be just someone's wife. That would be a great disservice to yourself." She sat down by Irene on the sofa, and tenderly wrapped an arm around her. "Do you understand me, darling?"

"I think so," Irene said. "Are you alright, Mother?"

"Today I was reminded that to most of the world I am a breeding animal," she said bitterly. "Some men think that because a woman is unmarried, she is low-class, and of course, such a woman would welcome their attentions. I hope you are never labeled the sort of vulgar, crude words men will lob at a woman without a wedding band and with a child."

"I'm sorry, Mother," Irene said. She knew her mother's anger was directed elsewhere, but she felt a strong urge to apologize for being born out of wedlock, though she knew she had no blame in that.

"Unfortunately, this is how things are," her mother said. "But I have hope, soon, the world will change for us women. There's talk of the vote, civil rights...I only pray for such privileges."

Irene Adler often thought of her mother's words throughout her life. Every man who crooned of her beauty and not her mind recalled her mother's warning. Every praise of her remarkableness for a woman made her flinch. She often enjoyed turning the tables on her arrogant admirers, reminding them that she was more than a potential bedmate and wife with her sharp wit. She hoped she had made her place in the world a unique one. And in 1920, she remembered her mother's hopes as she stood screaming with forty other suffragettes as the Nineteenth Amendment passed.


	28. Lachrymosa

**From I'm Nova: Lachrymosa**

 **(Had to do a little research on this one; the word means "weeping" in Latin and is often associated with Mary, Our Lady of Sorrows. Apologies for how tragic this came out.)**

Technically, John Watson had been reared a Presbyterian, but he found himself in a Catholic church on Christmas Eve. He slipped into a quiet pew near the doors, away from anyone else. He didn't remove his coat, even as the service began; he was quite cold.

The sermon was beautiful, full of joy and hope, but Watson couldn't focus on the words' meaning. He found his eyes drawn to the statue of Mary stationed near him. She was weeping; seven swords pierced her heart. Vaguely, Watson recalled they had something to do with her seven sorrows. He couldn't remember what all of them were. One was her flight to Egypt. One was certainly the loss of her child. Was another the loss of her spouse? He didn't think so. The anguish on her face moved him, and warm tears pricked his eyes. _I know how you feel,_ she seemed to say. He looked away from her eyes, so sad and so real, and looked ahead at the priest.

When the sermon ended, he stood quickly and slipped outside, into the cold night. He hoped the fire at home would lift his soul, and maybe he could pick up his pen and write away some of his burden.


	29. Good

**From Book girl fan: Only the good die young.**

"I daresay that's all you'll need from Mr. Joel here," Holmes said. "You may take him in, Lestrade. You'll hear from me when we've located all his cronies."

"Now, you might say I run with a dangerous crowd," Joel said. "We ain't too pretty, we ain't too proud. We might be laughing a bit too loud, but that never hurt no one."

"No, they found other ways to hurt someone," Watson said.

"I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints," Joel said stubbornly. "The sinners are much more fun. You know that only the good die young."

"That's enough out of you," Lestrade said. "We'll be hearing from you, Holmes."

"What was up with the rhyming?" Watson asked Holmes, who eyed the sky. "I bet the challenge is involved," he answered.

"Trust me," came Wordwielder's disembodied voice. "You wanted Billy Joel lyrics rather than the dark way I could've taken the phrase, 'Only the good die young.'"

 **(I'm sorry this is so silly, but my last one was sad, and I couldn't get Billy Joel out of my head when I read this prompt).**


	30. Blue

**"From Book girl fan: If you were blue, what would you do?"**

"I 'ope Alf is alrigh'," Sam said anxiously.

"I 'eard his mam talkin' to mine, and she said he came home _blue,"_ Tobias said seriously.

"What do ya do when you're blue?" Little Tom said. "Ay, Wiggins, if you were blue, what would you do?"

Wiggins rolled his eyes. "Ay, you're all thick. Blue's an expression, means he was real cold when he came home. Mr. 'Olmes told me he sent Doc Watson 'round, and he's gonna help free of charge. Alf will be fine. I promise."

The boys looked at each other, much reassured to have a bigger boy promise it would all be fine. After all, Dr. Watson had never failed them before.

"Now get back to whatever you're s'posed to be doing," Wiggins said, trying to sound stern. "Honestly, you lot."

They shrugged and scampered off to the spots they were supposed to be monitoring. Wiggins set off to give Mr. Holmes his report. Maybe he could beg some sweets off Mrs. Hudson to take to Alfie later...


	31. Purple

**From Book girl fan: Purple.**

The clock had struck twelve an hour previously, and Holmes had just stood from our fireside and announced he intended to return to Baker Street before the temperature dropped much more. He waved off our protests, so Mary stood up and brought him his old coat and his new scarf. Mrs. Hudson had knitted us all one for Christmas this year. Mary's was a pale blue that brought out her eyes; mine was a cherry red. Holmes' was a rich purple. As he wound it around his neck, the firelight casting his profile on the wall behind him, he looked almost royal. I imagined Holmes as king of the past for a moment, then as a fine Thespian on stage, playing the great kings of England past. I could imagine him all too well in a purple cape and a crown, and I smiled.

"Happy New Year, old boy," he said warmly. I clasped his shoulder. "The same to you." He kissed Mary's hand and bowed his head.

"You'll be around for tea next week, won't you?" she asked. "You did promise."

"Of course," he said. We walked him to the door, and he slipped out into the snow. His scarf flared behind him in the wind, and my lovely wife and I went up to bed, ready to face the new year ahead when we awoke.

 **Many, many thanks to each of you who reviewed and read. I've loved reading all your responses, and I look forward to reading all your work in 2017!**


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